


Never Meant to Be

by out_of_style



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Multi, Other, Some Soooort of Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_of_style/pseuds/out_of_style
Summary: It's a Monday afternoon. You're enjoying a cup of coffee at your favorite cafe, seated at your favorite table, in your favorite chair- just like any other normal day. Except it's not. Because nothing involving Draco Malfoy could ever be ordinary.(AKA: The sad story of an NPC in a fanfic.)





	Never Meant to Be

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, as someone who has never read or written anything that is 'Reader/Character' ever-- I have no idea how I came to write this. It sort of snuck up on me? Honestly, I was asked what I pictured when I thought about Draco and it just- turned into this semi-cute, semi-creepy, semi-sad... thing. So instead of writing the thing i'm supposed to be writing I just wrote this in a few hours and decided just maybe someone out there might enjoy this thing. So I'm posting it! Enjoy! It's uh-- weird! Please be kind to me, I'm a sensitive flower. ;; It's rated mature for some kinda suggestive imagery btw! 
> 
> also bixgirl1 replied to me on tumblr today soooooo fuck yeah. today is a good day for me!!

The day was already off to miserable start. After a devastatingly petty argument with a friend over a lost broomstick of all things, you decided that you could use a good cup of coffee and some respite from the rest of the world. As usual, you choose an old favourite- a cozy little cafe named ‘hazel&briar’ that sits on a busy street on Diagon alley. It's a place you have a bit of a soft spot for- a quiet sanctuary from all the hustle and bustle just outside its doors. As you step inside a bell rings to announce a new visitor. You're immediately surrounded with the smell of freshly baked bread and hazelnut coffee- you flash a bright smile at the owner (a full figured older witch, she sometimes slips you an extra biscuit when her husband isn't looking) who greets you with a wink as you take a seat at your favored spot. However- something felt different today. You furrow your brow thought- actually, you come here often enough that you know the crowd quite well. To be honest the day to day monotony and friendly familiar faces is part of the charm- why you love it here. In a word it's- reliable. A constant in a world that is anything but.

You take a moment to look around as you settle in-- it is then that you notice him for the first time. A new face and a pretty one at that. In the corner table sits a stunning lithe middle aged man- all bundled up in a much-too-long scarf. The scarf itself is patchwork shades of light browns and deep reds- it screams ‘handmade’, not for lack of quality but the warm inviting aura that emanates from it-- it sings of all the love that went into its creation and you're overcome with the desire to touch it. However, the scarf is also a stark contrast to the rest of the man’s finely tailored ash blue robes. The long elegant fingers of one of his hands is wrapped in one of its fraying edges- tousling it almost protectively. You’re itching to know whats the story behind that scarf (and it's owner)- and perhaps you should ask him! You weigh that thought uncertainly, peering still from your own seat at the table opposite his- only a few feet away. Thin oval glasses sit atop a lightly freckled nose- the freckles are so sparse and light that you’d miss them entirely if you weren’t paying attention. The tiny collections of constellations that dot his nose are the only signs of any 'imperfection' on his pale skin-- you’re immediately reminding of an old faerie tale. You tilt your head as you try to recall it- "skin as white as snow" or something? Lips of... Merlin's beard those lips-- 

They were full and finely shaped, stained red as if he’d given far too much attention to a strawberry lately. The image of that alone makes your breath catch for a moment. You can vividly picture a soft pink tongue darting out to lavish it with a series of painfully slow languid licks. In your mind he's moaning unabashedly, taking it in it's entirety into his mouth. Wantonly sucking at- A flush finds its way to your cheeks as you try to shake off this budding feeling of-- sheer lust. You notice his other hand is occupied with his hair- its platinum blond, almost silver and its obnoxiously gorgeous. He’s fixing the strands absently, but in vain-- as far as you can tell it’s gelled or spelled to perfection. Well- there is one strand that’s fallen out of line but even that seems planned. Manufactured imperfection. While the rest of his hair is styled backwards, the lone strand lightly brushes against the skin of his forehead. You imagine leaning in to brush it back with your thumb, but the image in your mind twists into him taking that thumb into his mouth and- Fuck. Circe's tits, you don’t even know this man- this is officially creepy. You tell yourself that you should stop staring- but on a deeper level you feel its already too late. You feel /dirty/.. yet- you can’t stop bloody leering at him because really- after the first glance you were already his, weren’t you? 

On the table in front of him beside his espresso are two copies of a book. The cover is gray and reads ‘I Am A Cat’. It's the sort of book you’ve heard someone smarter than you blabbering about but you never read it, not really. You suddenly wish you had and wonder if its funny- it might be, judging by the ghost of a smile that plays on those irresistable lips. His eyes are focused on its words and you realize they almost match the color of the book-- an almost pearlescent gray, shrouded in a bed of lengthy white lashes. 

Cherry tinted lips part and the man makes a soft contemplative sigh-- but it might as well have been a siren’s song. Absurdly enough, it felt as if he was beckoning you-- daring you to come forward and do something about all those thoughts. Before today you considered yourself strong willed, a generally reasonable person. But that single sigh broke the last strand of logic you had in you. You run your fingers through your hair nervously and you’re confronted with the knowledge that you couldn’t resist that sound, you wanted- needed more of it. How would it feel to press your lips against his and devour each note of it? To be the reason for this creature’s every moan and gasp? Thinking of how beautifully his pale skin would contrast against your own scarlet red bed sheets, you bit your lower lip. Fuck it. You had to at least try for once. So, you begin to move and the slow scraping of the legs of your chair against the floor shatters the comfortable quiet of the cafe and before you know it you’re standing there awkwardly beside your seat. 

Your heart sputters as he blinks once.  
Twice.

Purposefully, almost as if he /knows/- he slowly lifts his gaze upwards. The world around you grows muffled and pale- as if everything but Him is background noise. His stare is both calculating and unwavering. Unreadable. A chill sprawls its way down your spine, leaving an overwhelming feeling of tense nerve-wrecking anxiety to brew in the pit of your stomach. Everything about this man feels as inevitable as an oncoming storm, those thunderous eyes pierce straight through you like lightning burning through a tree.

You’re overcome with the sense that he could read your every thought, each dirty desire and sinful prayer. It feels to you as if you’ve been sharing this electrified moment for minutes, hours, days-- you can’t be sure. Time stopped feeling relevant from the moment you first laid eyes on him. 

Then, as if some sort of switch had been flipped, your heart leaps in your chest as the almost-smile from before blossoms into a full blown grin. The expression of pure adoration that springs to life in his eyes is something you’ve never experienced before. You imagine artists spend years trying to capture that look- it's pure magic. Those hands of his move to straighten out his robes, needlessly play at his hair again, and he clears his throat as he stands at his full height-- taller than you had imagined, you think absently. But none of that matters now- because now you were certain. He could sense it too. This immense undeniable attraction, it was requited-- which is more than you dared to hope for. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register a jingling noise- a bell perhaps? But that felt so very insignificant. How could you think of anything else but him? The way he was exuding affection was all encompassing. Merlin, he looked as if he was dying to take a step forward and approach you but his own pride was stopping him. His body language was a silent order that you were to come to him first- a demand that you would gladly obey. But momentarily you’re lost in the dimples and the crinkles that formed on the corner of his eyes, lost in his beauty and god the look in his eyes! You can’t begin to imagine why but hes looking at you like--- like he’d been away on a journey for years and that you were his /home/. Looking at you as if you were all he’d ever wanted in life, looking at you the way a man looks at the person they want to spend their life with. It was almost overwhelming to be the object of such intense warmth and affection. You continue to stand there gaping at him, wordless. 

After what feels like an eternity, you regain control of yourself and you’re mentally scrambling to think of what to say. Should you keep it simple or would that be too boring? He seems like the type who would like a challenge. Hm. Should you be bold or coy? As you stand there lost in your thoughts- again his lips part and you strain your ears, poised to memorize his every word- but what he says only leaves you dazed. Confused. 

“Potter! So kind of you to deign to grace us with your presence. Do enlighten me, what part of ‘let's meet at hazel&brair at 10am’ sounded to you like ‘leave me waiting for at least 2 hours’? Just asking in advance, I wouldn’t want to make such a dire mistake again.” You feel a rush of cold air and the sensation of something brushing against your shoulder as a man strolls pass you. The figure before you is- admittedly handsome, all tanned skin and toned muscles- even the Auror robes couldn’t hide his figure. There's something familiar about him that you can't place in your confusion. You drop back down onto your seat wordlessly as the Auror wraps the other man in a tight embrace. "Alright alright, I get it. Does it help if I tell you how terribly I missed you? I think Hermione's right. I am kind of a mess without you." He grins as he plants a chaste kiss on the man's cheek, "You know- you always call me Potter when you’re being dramatic. So- all the time." He notes aloud, brushing that singular strand of blonde hair back into place. Try as you might- you can’t deny the love that’s laced into those words. But that doesn't soften the ache you feel from the realization that this angel- no, this man that you were so blindly momentarily enamored with, probably hadn't even seen you standing there. That thought brings you swiftly back into reality and a sense of emptiness grasps your heart.

The pair takes a seat and their fingers intertwine under the table. The midday sun beams down from a nearby window, it seems to shine only for them. Quietly, you gather yourself, pick up your things, and turn to leave, all that desire fading to a dull sense of shame and embarrassment. Against your better instincts you spare one last longing glance to the couple, consumed with the wishes of what might've been. However, looking at them together, you feel neither envy nor jealousy. You couldn't possibly dare to. After just a few moments of observation it was appallingly obvious- this story was never going to be your happy ending. It wasn't about you at all. So, being bitter about the bond those two share would be as futile as being jealous of the moon and the stars in the night sky.

Some things are simply meant to be.


End file.
